


Final Countdown

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Ma'lak Box (Supernatural), Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-09-02 02:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20268463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: A metal casket, roughly 35 cubic feet of empty space, ready and waiting for Dean.All he has to do now is get inside.(Canon divergent after 14x12Prophet and Loss.)





	Final Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, this is a sequel to my fic [Boxed In](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19420231), but all you need to know is that after the events of 14x12, Dean was kidnapped by Michael's super-werewolves who tortured him in order to break his control over Michael.

"Are you sure?" Sam's face is drawn in worry. "Because I really don't think it's a good idea."

Dean bites back a groan—Hurricane Michael is raging inside his head, again. When the worst of it passes, he heaves a sigh, like he's just annoyed with Sam's constant fretting. Can't show him how bad it is. "Would you quit worrying?"

"Seriously?" Sam throws his hands up in frustration. "We just got you back, Dean! So sue me if I don't like leaving you alone so soon, not when you're still…" He trails off, but Dean can see his point here.

For some reason, Cas couldn’t mojo Dean’s injuries away. And there are many; those werewolves really went to town on him. Alex looked like she was going to be sick when they brought her in to take a look at Dean, and he doesn’t blame her. By all rights he should be in hospital, not in a motel room in... wherever they hell they are.

But doctors would give him something to put him under, and he can’t have that. It wouldn’t be him behind the wheel once the drugs wore off.

"I know it looks... bad," Dean ventures. "But I'm not some damsel in distress. You don't have to watch over me all the time."

"I know that. I just…" Sam does one of those full-body, frowny-face sighs and shakes his head. "First Cas and Jack had to go check out that Heaven power shortage thing, then Alex had to leave for her exams, and now I run out of bandages?"

The poor guy looks so stressed out Dean wants nothing more than to give him a hug and tell him everything will be alright. He can't do the former because his hands are broken, but he can to do the latter. Even though it's a lie. "Sam, it's gonna be fine."

But Sam's not even listening. "I shouldn't go."

Dean smiles like Sam's being ridiculous, then grimaces as it pulls on his split lip. "You're going to the drugstore for supplies, not to the North Pole. It's what, a five-minute ride?"

Sam fidgets with the car keys. He's been 'on his way out' for half an hour at least. "More like eight." He shakes his head again. "No. It's not safe for you to be alone. I'll wait till Mom gets here."

One part of Dean still can't believe she's on her way here, which says a lot of messed up stuff about a lot of things. He just got rescued from kidnapping and torture; of course his mother is coming.

And he'd love to see her one last time.

He blinks, wishing he could turn his face away from Sam, not sure he can pull off the _I'm peachy _vibe convincingly. "Don't worry, I can handle being on my own for 15 minutes. And…" He pauses, decides to change tack, and lets some of the pain he's feeling show. "I really could use more painkillers. And clean bandages. Then you can Florence Nightingale me all you want."

Sam winces. "You sure?" 

"Yeah, I'm sure." Another smile, split lip be damned. Sammy needs to calm down. And Dean needs him gone. "Go on."

Sam grabs Dean's phone from the bedside table, puts it on the bed next to Dean's mangled right hand. "If you need anything—"

"I'll call. Now go already. And say hi to Baby for me."

A small smile tugs at Sam's lips. "Sure." He reaches for the doorknob, finally. "I'll be right back."

"Counting on it."

Dean waits until he hears his girl's engine roaring away, then lets out a relieved breath.

Alone at last.

No time to waste now.

"Billie.“

She doesn’t make a sound, but Dean knows she’s there the instant she shows up. A change of air in the room, maybe, or the way Michael coils up inside him before letting out a scream of rage.

“So,” Billie says, walking into Dean's field of vision. She’s all dressed up, black leather coat and scythe and all. “Not doing so good, I see.”

Dean flashes her a very sweet, very fake smile. His lip is bleeding again. “Look, I’m beat, okay, so you mind if we just skip the fun banter this time?”

As usual, Billie’s expression is unreadable. “What do you want,” she intones.

“I need your help.”

She cocks an eyebrow.

Dean’s too tired for charades. Getting Sam to leave used up all the energy he had. “I need you to take me to that damn box so I can do what I gotta do.”

“I see.” Billie looks around the room slowly. “I take it Sam hasn’t offered to help you with this.”

The thing is, Dean _was _planning to tell Sam. Come clean, ask him to help and be by Dean’s side till the end. But one look at Sam’s face when he and the rest of the cavalry burst in and saved Dean, and that idea went right down the drain.

There's no stopping Sam when he gets like that, when he has that desperate, almost insane look that says he'd rather let the world burn than watch Dean get hurt. And Dean gets it; giving Sam the green light to take a dive into the Cage was the hardest thing he's ever had to do, and he was too weak and selfish to let Sam go ever since. Even when it cost them the chance to board up Hell forever.

He figured out the trick now, though. He and Sam can never let each other go, so the solution is simple—Sam can't know. 

"You know," Billie says, "if you'd used the box at once instead of waiting, you wouldn't have to be asking for my help now."

Easy for her to say; she's not the one condemning herself to an eternity in solitary with a pissed off archangel. Dean doesn't defend himself though, because those are just excuses. He knew what the right thing to do was, and his own fear or Sam's pain never should have stood in the way. Not with the world at stake.

“Just spare me the lecture, alright? I'm trying to do this now." And he doesn’t have long before Sam or someone else comes back. “I can’t get up, drive to the bunker, haul the box out of the dungeon and get to the coast by myself. So if you want Michael gone, you gotta give me a hand. ‘Cause mine aren’t working right now.”

She directs a pointed look at his bandaged, splintered hands. “I don’t intervene,” her voice is strict. “Rules.”

“Fuck rules!” Dean shouts, or at least means to. It comes out more as a croak because his vocal cords still haven't recovered from all the screaming he'd been doing recently. “You break them just like everybody else if you have to. And you know damn well you have to do it now.”

Billie narrows her eyes. It’s probably meant to be menacing, but she doesn’t scare Dean. What scares him is the archangel inside his mind, and the door that is wearing thinner by the second, metal plates denting, wood chipping away, hinges creaking and loosening. Soon there’ll be no door left, and if she doesn't help him, the world is screwed.

"Billie, please? Help. Now."

She says nothing, but there's a whoosh of air and Dean finds himself in the bunker's dungeon, next to the box. Standing on his feet, which are unbroken and healed, just like the rest of him.

"Thanks," he says, but Billie's nowhere to be found. Probably trying for plausible deniability.

Against his will, Dean's gaze is drawn to the box. It was a fairly big block of iron when he was building it, but now it looks small. Horribly small.

Dean gulps and looks away.

\--- --- --- ---

Getting the box out of the dungeon and to the garage is a bitch, but Dean is nothing but crafty when he needs to be, and after some cursing, grunting and sweating, the box is right where he wants it. 

Now he needs to pick a car. 

The Impala's still back in Iowa where Sam must be frantically looking for Dean by now, out of his mind with worry. Again.

Dean tries not to think about that and instead concentrates on getting the box on a trailer and securing it with bungee cords, then making sure the old jeep he chose is in good enough shape to make the trip to the coast. The last thing he needs is getting stuck somewhere in between.

Before he sets out, he takes a quick shower, changes into new clothes.

Alright. All ready and set.

Except one thing.

He doesn't call Sam, knowing he couldn't bear to hear his brother's voice breaking over the phone. But he owes Sam something, a goodbye. It’s still a grade-A dick move to let Sam know like this, without giving him a chance to respond. But Sam’s already talked Dean out of it once, and it can’t happen again.

Dean grabs a pen and paper, the tip hovering over the stationery at the desk in his brother's room.

What does he say?

_Sam_,

He starts writing, because how could he not. His hand is shaking. Must be because of Michael throwing his full weight against the door in Dean’s mind.

_I'm sorry. I have to do this._

_Remember how you said I don't have to act like I'm not scared of the box? Well, I'm scared shitless. But Michael breaking free and destroying the world scares me way more. I can't take the risk. _He knows Sam will understand. He will hate it, he might—probably will—even hate himself for not stopping Dean, but eventually he will understand. It’s Sam.

_Don't do anything stupid, OK? Be safe._

He doesn't sign it, just leaves the message on the table, together with his phone and all the spare phones, and goes.

\--- --- --- ---

It's almost a full day’s drive from Lebanon to the ocean, and it's the longest day of Dean's life. The last time he had a countdown ticking his life away, he had Sam and Bobby to keep him company and distract him from the hellfire at the end of the tunnel. 

Now, there is no one.

He misses Baby. It should've been her taking him to the finish line, not a stupid jeep.

It's fine though. As long as the miles keep adding up on the meter, it's all fine.

Dean drives fast but not over the speed limit, extra careful on the road. He can't have the cops pulling him over for speeding. Or drive too fast to safely handle the surprise migraine attacks Michael loves so much, and crash the car.

“Could’ve just taken me right to the coast,” he grumbles in case Billie's listening. "Get this over with faster." She did heal him and zap him to Lebanon, though, so he can't complain much. After all, it's his mess, and his own super fun Not-Quite-Suicide Cross-Country Ride. Dean can’t expect others to pull all the weight for him.

The car runs smoothly, eating up the miles with ease, but minutes drag on, painfully slow. Like there's a big, slow pendulum swinging and marking Dean's lasts—last gas refill, last roadside diner burger and fries, last motel room to check in for a few hours of rest, if not sleep because he doesn't dare close his eyes.

Last sunrise, when he's on the road again, driving down the I-70, almost empty on a Saturday morning.

The early morning light is melancholy, inviting thought, and that's never a good thing. Questions keep popping up in Dean's mind, unwelcome but persistent. Questions he'd been doing his damnedest to avoid since Billie showed him that book.

What will happen once he’s inside the box and under the sea? Will he suffocate? Will Michael let him die? Probably not, that would be too merciful.

Will Michael take his wrath out on him, make him suffer for all eternity without a moment of reprieve? Or will he ignore Dean? And which would be worse?

How long before Dean starts crying like a baby, calling out for Sam, for someone, _anyone _to get him out? Before he starts cursing himself for building a prison he can’t break out of?

How long before he goes insane? Will he even be allowed to go insane, or will he stay perfectly aware and conscious of everything forever, like he did in Hell?

Dean tries turning on the radio to keep such thoughts at bay, but it doesn’t work. Classic rock stations don't comfort him, crappy pop stations don't piss him off enough to be a distraction, the news stations just make him question whether he should even be trying to save a world clearly so bent on destroying itself.

Eventually he gives up, turns the radio off and continues in silence that is only interrupted by Michael's screams and Dean's own curses and groans of pain when the pressure inside his head gets particularly bad.

He drives.

\--- --- --- ---

He made some calls from a payphone back at the motel, asking around until he found a crew willing to dump an iron box into the ocean, no questions asked.

Following the instructions he got over the phone, Dean turns off the highway about fifty miles ahead of San Diego, driving down roads that keep getting narrower and more dilapidated until he reaches a pier in the middle of nowhere, rocky coast and several ramshackle huts and that’s about it. Probably a meeting point for smugglers or something.

A glance at his watch tells Dean he’s got about twenty minutes before the men get here to pick up the cargo and drop it into the ocean.

Drop _him _into the ocean.

His heart starts beating like crazy and his mouth goes sandpaper-dry, body shaking like he's having a seizure.

"Fuck," he croaks, stumbling out of the car and immediately having to lean against it for support. "Get it together!"

Deep breaths. In and out. In and out. Slow and steady until it doesn't feel like he's having a heart attack anymore. There. He concentrates on the cold wind pelleting his face with droplets of salty water and nothing more.

Yeah.

Okay.

Dean licks his lips, pushes off the car, nodding to himself. Almost there. Almost done. He can do this. 

He's walking around the car to the trailer when Michael strikes again, a screech and a blast of power so strong that Dean's legs go out from under him. He crashes hard, knees bruising and palms scraping as he hits gravel.

"Scared, you son of a bitch?" He grits out, grabbing the rear door handle to pull himself up again. "Good."

A few more shaky steps and then he's unfastening the bungee cords holding the box secured to the trailer, one by one. The metal of the box is warm to touch from being exposed to the sun.

When the last cord is undone—enough with the lasts already!—Dean opens the box with an ominous creak and looks inside.

It’s empty, a metal casket framing roughly 35 cubic feet of space, ready and waiting for Dean.

All he has to do now is get inside.

"Okay, let's do this," he tells himself.

But he doesn't move.

He _can't _move.

And then suddenly he can, quickly turning to the side and throwing up his breakfast all over the trailer's wheel, just barely missing his own boots.

Awesome.

He spits, wipes his mouth with the back of his shaking hand. Gives himself a few moments to see if he's gonna be sick again.

"Alright," he says once he's fairly sure he's good now. "Enough freaking out. Now be a man about this."

Climbing up on the trailer, he doesn't give himself any more time for second thoughts and swings a leg over the side, sets his foot inside the box. Then the other.

“Very good," a voice says behind him. "Almost done now.”

He startles, turning around to find Billie standing there. “Shit!”

The corners of her lips twitch almost imperceptibly. “Jumpy, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, so?” He dares her to say more, mock him for it maybe, but she says nothing, just stands there and watches him. “Came here to enjoy the final show? Gloat a little?”

“Came here to make sure everything goes well.” Billie takes her eyes off him, directs her gaze on the box, glancing over the seals and sigils. “You did a good job.”

Dean shrugs. “I had detailed instructions. And solid motivation.”

Billie doesn’t answer. The conversation’s clearly over for her, and Dean’s fine with that.

“Alright,” he claps, rubs his hands together to hide how they’re shaking like leaves. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He sits down, scoots a little, and lies down.

There.

The sky above him is silvery gray, seagulls flying high above. Then Billie’s there, leaning over the open box. Reaching for the lid.

Dean’s heart is in his throat.

Michael is screaming.

Dean meets Billie's eyes. “See you soon?”

“No,” she says, and closes the box, shutting out the world and leaving him alone in the dark.

It’s done. He can’t get out now, there's no turning back.

“That’s good,” he tells himself, his rough voice echoing of the walls.

He tries to listen for sounds from the outside, but the box is warded; nothing gets in, nothing gets out. There’s just his breathing and Michael storming the door full force. Dean could probably just stop fighting already, but he needs to be sure, has to wait until he’s in the ocean where no one can find them.

He starts to count in his head.

When he gets to 1,027, the box moves, first just a shift, then the end where his feet are lifts up, then drops down again. Must be the men he paid moving the box to their boat.

There’s some more moving around, and he slips and skids inside the box as it’s being lifted and turned, those handling it not particularly careful with the contents. To be fair, he didn’t tell them what’s gonna be inside, and even if they might suspect it’s a body, there’s no way they’d ever guess the body is still alive.

Every time the box moves, his heartbeat ratchets up as he thinks _this is it, I’m going overboard_, but then nothing happens. It’s too soon for that. Their instructions, ensured by the thick wad of cash Dean left in the glove compartment of the car, were to take the box out to the wide seas. They said that would take a couple hours.

Dean tries to count again, but Michael is raging like crazy, making Dean skip some numbers and repeat others. It’s still better than just lying there and doing nothing.

It feels like eternity already, but it’s only the beginning of it.

_Just keep counting_, he tells himself, sweaty fists clenched in fear, his insides tied up in knots. He can barely breathe. Is the air getting thinner already? 

If he’s lucky, he’ll die soon.

Who is he kidding? Dean starts to laugh. He’s never lucky, that’s just how things are.

He laughs hysterically until he can’t anymore, gasping for breath, tears running down his cheeks. His lungs hurt, his head is a pressure valve about to blow. He's shaking again, can’t seem to stop it, his muscles not obeying his commands.

The door inside his head is giving too, he won’t hold it for long now, Michael’s screams louder and clearer than before, easily slipping through the growing cracks.

Suddenly the box moves again, Dean bumping his aching head against the wall as the other end of the box is lifted high. Gravity does a weird flip and he flies up to the ceiling, hitting it hard. Then comes a strange sense of weightlessness.

He’s falling.

And then—

This is it; he knows it somehow.

The door explodes, a billion pieces of wood and iron, Michael a white flood of fury unleashed.

_—splash._


End file.
